


Ask For It By Name

by shakti108



Series: Mingling [7]
Category: Bon Jovi (Band)
Genre: 1980s, Angst and Humor, M/M, Sexual Fantasy
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-06-14
Updated: 2019-06-16
Packaged: 2020-05-07 11:33:02
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 7,578
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19208539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/shakti108/pseuds/shakti108
Summary: Almost done dragging old stories over here ...





	1. One

**Author's Note:**

> Almost done dragging old stories over here ...

"Which ones?" Jon asked, holding up two pairs of faux-leather pants. One was roughly the color of mustard, the other ketchup, and he couldn't decide.

Richie was sprawled out on the bed -- Jon's bed -- entranced by that annoying-as-hell Meow Mix commercial with the singing cat. He spared a second to tear his eyes away from the TV.

"Um." He flapped a hand in the air. "Those."

Jon rolled his eyes as Richie redirected his attention to the screen, bobbing his head in time to the jingle.

"Rich," he said, stepping closer to the bed. "Which _ones?_ "

He realized the futility in it all -- soliciting fashion advice from a guy who was color-blind and liked to tie scarves around his arms. If he had a girlfriend, he'd ask her which pants he should wear to the photo shoot. But he didn't have a girlfriend. He had Richie.

_Christ help me._

Richie looked over and graced him with a lecherous smile. "Whichever ones are tighter, baby."

Jon tried to appear bored but was betrayed when his lips twitched. "Pretty sure they both cut off my circulation."

Richie made a _tsk_ sound. "Please." He blatantly ran his eyes down Jon's body. "I've never noticed any circulation problems with you."

Jon felt a charge ripple through him at the words, but more so at the sparkle in those eyes. He kind of resented the way Richie could do that. But only kind of.

Jon managed to don a deadly serious expression. "So. The red ones?"

Richie shrugged, his smile evolving into a smirk. "Sure."

He started channel-flipping, and Jon turned around to drop his sweats. It was a weird grab at modesty, he knew, considering all the things he and Richie had been doing in the past few months. But every so often, he'd cling to the concept of privacy.

As he awkwardly coaxed the red pants up his thighs, he heard Richie begin to chant softly.

"Meow, meow, meow, meow. Meow, meow, meow, meow --"

Jon groaned. "Ugh, don't start."

"Meow, meow, meow, meow, _meow,_ meow, meow, meow."

Jon huffed as he struggled to yank the pants over his ass. "I will punch you in the face." 

"It's good vocal training," Richie defended. "Those _meows_ require exquisite breath control."

Jon finally succeeded in tucking all of his parts in, but before he could bask in the triumph he heard a skeptical "hmm."

He turned to face the bed. "What?"

Richie pushed his bottom lip out and made his _thinking_ face. "I dunno, man. You're really stuffed into those things. They're like a sausage casing."

Jon choked out a surprised laugh. "Wow. Thanks?"

Richie held up a hand. "Hey, that's not a bad thing. I mean, it's kinda the look you go for these days, right?"

Jon narrowed his eyes, suspicious of where this was heading -- because he was pretty sure he knew the destination. Yet he couldn't resist nudging Richie along.

"What does that mean?" he asked, crossing his arms.

"Nothing. Just … I know you're dressing for the girls. And they're paying to see whatcha got, so …"

Richie peered at him with eyes full of faux-innocence, and Jon sighed in annoyance. 

"Whatever. You're the one who said, 'Wear the _tighter_ ones, Jonny.'"

He conveyed the last bit in a piercing falsetto that made Richie glare at him.

"Since when am I a twelve-year-old girl?"

"You were just _meow-ing._ "

Richie set down the remote and crossed his arms to mirror Jon's stance. "Listen. All I'm saying is, I know the deal. The girls hafta dig us. And I guess your sausage pants will be instrumental in that."

Jon rolled his eyes but didn't argue. It would be stupid to bother. The truth was, he'd gotten attention for his looks most of his life. But lately -- with all the touring, the videos, the magazine shoots -- the attention was getting more intense. And they all knew he had to milk it.

Still, he'd been noticing how much it bugged Richie at times. He just wasn't sure if it was because Richie wanted the chicks to back off, or wanted the attention for himself. Probably both.

Jon was about to steer the conversation away from his pants when a stark, ominous chord sounded from the TV. They both looked toward the screen to see a close-up of a frying pan filled with bubbling butter.

_OK, last time,_ said a surly announcer. _This is your brain._

An egg was dumped into the pan, where it sizzled dramatically. 

_This is your brain on drugs … Any questions?_

Jon frowned. "The fuck?"

Richie giggled like a dork. "Mm-mmm. My brain on drugs looks dee-licious."

Jon shook his head and flopped onto the vacant bed -- which, to his mild annoyance, was not _his_ bed. 

Richie rolled onto his belly, propping his head on his hand. "Really. Some Tabasco sauce, salt and pepper … My brain on drugs would be fucking delectable."

He bent his knees and kicked his feet together a few times -- his big toe protruding from a giant hole in his sock.

The sight made Jon smile for some reason. So he laid back, partly to hide the smile, partly to relieve the pressure of the waistband cutting into his skin. "God, you're such a weirdo."

"Come on," Richie cajoled, in that not-quite-Spanish accent he liked. "You know you want to eat my brain on drugs."

Jon snorted. "It did look pretty tasty," he acknowledged.

A moment later, he heard the other bed shift. "Jonny," Richie said coyly. "I'm suddenly craving eggs and sausage."

Just like that, a spark lit deep in Jon's belly. He knew that tone -- It wasn't the tone of a man who wanted brunch. The internal warmth spread downward, and his pants started to become a real problem.

"Hmm," Jon said in mock-puzzlement. "What kind of sausage?"

There was a pause before Richie answered. "Italian, of course."

Jon laughed, even as he shifted his hips to find a little friction. 

"Of course."

Another beat of silence and then Richie was babbling again. "But really, I'm not all that picky. You know me -- I'll eat anything."

Jon blinked, unsure of what that meant. But he automatically laid his palm on his low belly, just above his waistband.

"You sure?" he questioned, focusing his gaze toward the ceiling. " _Anything?_ "

The other bed squeaked again, and he could sense Richie trying to size up the situation. 

"Well," he replied, "pretty much."

There was the barest hint of doubt in his voice, and Jon found it tantalizing. He slid his palm across his belly then back again.

"You were strongly opposed to sushi at first," he reminded.

Richie chuckled. "Yeah. But I got over it. The sake helped."

"Hmm." Jon dragged his nails through the hair around his navel. "True. But would you eat … squid?"

Richie scoffed. "I've had calamari, dumbass. Your mom tricked me into it, remember?"

Jon laughed lightly. He'd forgotten about that dinner at his house, when they were writing _Fahrenheit._ Sometimes Richie surprised him with the little things he recalled.

"OK," he said, continuing to graze his nails over his skin. "Would you eat …" He quickly thought back to their time in Japan. "Tuna eyeballs?"

"Absolutely fucking not."

Jon nodded at the resolve in Richie's tone. "Well there we have it -- The first thing on the list of shit you won't eat. OK, how about …"

He searched his mental vault for the most disgusting thing he'd ever had. In no time, it hit him in a flashback to a holiday at his grandparents'.

"Head cheese."

Richie snorted. "Is that a euphemism?"

"Nope. It's, like, a jelly. They make it from a pig's head, I think."

"Pig-head jelly?" Richie's voice shot up an octave. "Jesus Christ, _why?_ "

Jon grinned. "How should I know? OK, that makes two things."

"Why are you so interested in compiling this list?" Richie demanded. He tried to sound irritated, but Jon detected the underlying amusement.

He knew Richie loved to get this kind of attention from him. And he couldn't deny he enjoyed feeling so important -- knowing such stupid little things apparently meant the world, just because they came from him.

It was kind of a turn-on, too.

Jon flattened his palm against his belly again. "I'm bored," he explained dismissively. "All right -- So what else would you never, ever allow past your delicate lips?"

Richie laughed in a very non-delicate way. "Um, let's see … Well, as a general rule, I'd say _cocks_ are high on the list."

Jon felt a little swoop in his belly and he pressed his hand down more firmly. "Huh. That's funny 'cause I coulda sworn --"

"As a general rule," Richie repeated, emphasizing each word. "I have one notable exception."

Jon tried and failed to suppress a smile. "Just one?"

"Just one."

Jon adjusted again, this time shamelessly sliding his hand lower. "All right," he said, voice a little gruffer. "We'll add 'most cocks' to the list."

"Sounds good. So we got tuna eyeballs, pig-head jelly and cocks that don't belong to Jon Bon Jovi. Pretty reasonable list."

"Yep," Jon agreed. "But it's short. I mean, are those your _only_ boundaries?"

He wasn't entirely sure where he was taking this interrogation, but his heartbeat was palpable in his throat now. And between that and the insistent downward pulse, he was heading for a physical point of no return.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Richie turn onto his side. He could sense those eyes taking him in, and his skin tingled from the knowledge.

"Probably not," Richie replied. "But I gotta ask again -- Why are you so interested, Jonny?"

Jon swallowed as his pants became almost painfully constricting. "Just, y'know -- curious."

"About my thoughts on calamari?"

Jon let his fingertips wander a bit. "Not exactly."

"Then what?"

"I just …"

A question, only roughly formed, was at the tip of his tongue. But he didn't know how to ask it, or if he even wanted to. It was something that had occurred to him, fleetingly, a few times in recent weeks. A flash, a blurred image on those nights when they were huddled under the covers, sweating from their shared body heat in a confined space … and maybe from the undercurrent of fear. That ever-present anxiety that someone would hear, finally catch on --

Jon cleared his throat. "I just …" he began again. "I was wondering where you draw the line."

As soon as the words were out, the tingling under his palm became unbearable and he brazenly pressed the heel of his hand against the base of his cock.

_What the fuck am I doing?_

"Jonny?" There was a quaver in Richie's voice, and it was somewhat comforting. "I get the feeling we're not talking about food anymore."

Jon simply angled his hips to meet the pressure of his hand, because he needed relief more than words. The other bed creaked and he knew Richie was sitting up, but he didn't dare look.

"Why don't you just tell me what you mean?" Richie asked softly.

_Because I might die._

"Jonny. Where do you want my mouth?"

Jon gasped before he could contain it. "I didn't say I _wanted_ anything …" He knew the denial was ludicrous, seeing how he was practically jerking off as he spoke.

Still, he refused to acknowledge the truth. "I'm just wondering."

"Wondering what?"

Jon shut his eyes and freed a shaky breath. "Would you be willing to … use your tongue?"

The question remained suspended in the air, and it was like everything froze -- his hand, his breath, his heart. His mind was scrambling for a way out by the time Richie answered. 

"You mean … _there?_ "

He sounded so perplexed, Jon almost laughed. He wanted to laugh. He would've, if he weren't consumed by the need to dig a hole and crawl into it, sausage pants and all.

"Uh-huh," he replied weakly. "Have you ever? To a girl, I mean."

Richie hesitated. "Um. Well, no. I don't think I've ever had a girl ask for it."

"I'm not asking for it," Jon snapped, aware he sounded bizarrely childish, given the topic of conversation. "I'm asking if you _would._ Big difference."

"So it's a philosophical question?"

Jon groaned, pinching the bridge of his nose. "Oh, god -- Forget it."

He was sure he'd never been so embarrassed in his life. The good news, he supposed, was that his hard-on was retreating.

A moment later, though, Richie was standing next to the bed, poised above him and smiling in that semi-sweet, semi-dirty way. Jon's pants suddenly became very confused.

"It's not a philosophical question, is it?"

Jon set his jaw and exercised his Fifth Amendment rights. 

Richie kept smiling as he mounted the bed, straddling Jon's thighs and planting his palms on the comforter by his shoulders. 

"You wouldn't ask me unless you want me to do it. Admit it."

Richie bit his lip, purposely breaking out the dimple. The motherfucker.

Jon shook his head. "I want an attorney."

The smile widened. "C'mon. Just say it." Richie leaned down to nuzzle the side of his neck, lowering his voice to a murmur. "Tell me what you want me to do."

Jon automatically grasped Richie's shoulders, pressing his hips up, seeking contact. But the bastard held himself just out of reach.

Instead he shifted his attention to Jon's ear, laying agonizingly soft kisses on the sensitive skin around it. "Jonny," he breathed.

Jon dug his finger pads into Richie's triceps but otherwise refused to respond.

_Little fucker. It'll take more than --_

He inhaled sharply as Richie's tongue darted into his ear, then licked along the shell.

"Is that what you want?" he whispered.

Jon paused to find his voice. "Not a bad start."

"What else should I do?" Richie's breath tickled his ear, and the too-light sensations were starting to drive him insane.

Jon growled lowly. "You need step-by-step instructions?"

He felt Richie's smile. "Jonny, c'mon … Just ask for it by name."

"You bitch," Jon blurted out -- though he was already laughing, which probably detracted from the menace. "You're quoting the fucking Meow Mix commercial?"

He shoved at Richie's chest until he managed to knock him onto his side.

"My point is valid," Richie insisted as he sat up.

"You have a point?"

"Yeah. Even cats know how to ask, Jonny."

Jon kicked him. "I'm not a fucking cat. And I'm not asking for … _that._ "

To his dismay, Richie's smile slowly faded, and his eyes took on an uncertainty that made Jon curse himself. The last thing he wanted was for this to become A Thing.

_Why the fuck did I open my mouth?_

Jon moved to sit up against the headboard, putting some distance between them. When he dared to look Richie in the eyes again, the doubt was still there.

"So," Richie ventured slowly. "You want it, but you won't ask for it."

"Yeah," Jon said reflexively. "Wait -- No."

He didn't fucking know. Maybe his pants _were_ constricting the blood flow to his brain.

Richie sighed. "OK. Well … Can I ask you something?"

Jon eyed him warily. "I guess."

"Would you do it?" Richie's cheeks colored ever so slightly. "To me?"

Jon could only stare dumbly, thrown off by the unexpected turn. In all of his brief fantasies, it had been Richie doing it to him. And mostly, he'd been freaked out by the fact that he -- apparently -- wanted such a thing. He hadn't even considered what the giving role would be like.

But now that he gave it a cursory thought, his kneejerk response was, _Hell no._

"Oh. I, uh …" Jon realized his heart was racing just from the prospect. "I haven't really … y'know …"

Richie looked at his hands and smiled wanly. "OK."

Jon simply waited, having no idea what that meant.

"Well," Richie went on, keeping his eyes down. "If you want it, I'll do it." He glanced up and laughed awkwardly. "I mean, I'll give it the old college try."

Jon felt the words in his chest -- but not in a sappy, heart-swelling way. It was more like a stab. He wished he'd kept his big fucking mouth shut.

Richie studied him, obviously expecting a response. "Hey … Sorry if I embarrassed you."

Jon shook his head, finally remembering how to speak. "No -- No, it's fine." He sighed. "I'm sorry."

Richie furrowed his brow. "For what?"

Jon shrugged a shoulder and smiled sheepishly. "For interrupting your vocal training."

Richie returned the smile, looking relieved to be back in their comfort zone. This was what they did -- deflection by humor. It mostly worked.

"S'alright," Richie assured him. "I can pick up where I left off … I think I'd gotten to _meow._ "

"Ugh, no." Jon swung his legs over the side of the bed and hauled to his feet. "C'mon, we gotta go soon."

He looked down at Richie and waggled his eyebrows. "Strap on your best sausage casing, baby."

Richie laughed softly but cast his eyes down, toward the comforter. And Jon had to wonder if there was something in his face he didn't want to show.

But if there was, he supposed that was fine. They didn't have to tell each other everything, or constantly explain themselves, or slog through their feelings du jour. Or ask for what they wanted.

That was why they worked so well together. That much, Jon knew.


	2. Two

"Rich, why the fuck do you keep doing that?" Dave glowered across the table.

Jon shook his head slightly, silently warning Dave from fueling the shenanigans that had been on display ever since they sat down to brunch. Because like hell was he going to pay Richie any mind.

But then Alec and Tico actually stopped shoveling food into their faces to look over, and he knew it was a lost cause.

"What?" Richie asked innocently.

Jon could picture the wide brown eyes, but maintained a laser-like focus on his hash browns.

Dave sighed. "You keep _licking your lips._ It's creeping me out, man."

Alec snickered, and without meaning to, Jon glanced up -- just in time for Richie to catch his eye and wink. Jon dipped his chin and reached for his coffee, cursing himself. 

"I'm trying to enjoy every last morsel of this Ramada buffet," Richie explained earnestly.

Jon peered around the curtain of his hair to see Dave spearing a sausage link from his plate and wagging it at Richie.

"Use a napkin," he scolded in his Jewish-mom voice. "They're included with the amenities here at the Ramada."

Jon stared at the lewd breakfast food hovering inches away from Richie's lips. Those full, seemingly tireless lips … 

Dave chose that moment to snatch his fork back and stuff the whole link into his mouth. Jon squeezed his inner thighs together as Richie started shaking with poorly suppressed giggles.

"What?" Dave demanded around his mouthful of pork product.

Richie side-eyed Jon then shrugged. "Eating makes me happy."

Jon's cheeks warmed at the covertly dirty words, so he grabbed the nearest napkin to use as a cover.

"See?" Dave piped up. "Our leader knows how to wipe his mouth."

Everyone turned to observe Jon's napkin techniques, and Richie seized the opportunity to lock eyes with him and bite his bottom lip. His fat, stupid, ugly lip. Jon shifted in his seat to quash the buzz forming deep inside -- in a place completely inappropriate for a public brunch buffet.

_Jesus Christ._

He narrowed his eyes, because it was clearly time to fire up his visual warning system. But Richie just grinned.

Tico scanned the table, looking unimpressed by it all. "I just put the food in my mouth and chew."

Dave folded his hands on the table, feigning curiosity. "Then what, Teek?"

"I swallow."

Dave nodded studiously. "Your methods are sound." He jutted his chin toward Richie. "You taking notes?"

Richie returned the nod with enthusiasm. "I also swallow." He smiled sweetly. "Just ask Jon."

Silence fell over the table and Jon's stomach dropped. He swore he could feel Dave's eyes ping-ponging between him and Richie. But there was nothing he could do except clench his jaw and escalate his glare to DEFCON 1.

Alec screwed up his face. "The fuck are we even talkin' about right now?" He grabbed his mimosa. "Can you bitches let me eat my pancakes in peace?"

"Yes," Jon replied decisively. "Absolutely."

He kept his eyes trained on his target as a final warning, then dug his fork into his hash browns. They were the most fucking disgusting potatoes he'd ever had, but he kept force-feeding himself just to avoid Richie's self-satisfied mug and Dave's scrutiny.

Because this was what he'd become. A guy who had to pretend he wasn't in a love affair with his big-mouthed, lip-licking guitarist. A guy who'd basically asked said guitarist if he wouldn't mind rimming him when he had a spare minute. A guy whose said guitarist was, by all appearances, willing and ready.

And he had no one to blame but himself. He still had no idea why he'd opened this kinky Pandora's box. It wasn't like he wanted Richie to actually do it … He mostly didn't.

_Fuck._

Jon blew out a breath and grabbed the salt shaker to douse his potatoes.

He hadn't meant to cultivate this particular curiosity. But since he and Richie had been together, he'd gradually gotten used to letting his learned boundaries expand. He kind of got a rush from it. So every now and then, his mind would drift into new territory. Out of his control.

Jon took a swig of coffee, trying to wash away the cardboard aftertaste in his mouth.

_It's normal._

It was normal for a guy's imagination to visit places that were darker than everyday life. And now his everyday life was full of things that most people would probably consider twisted. He'd fucked his best friend, more than once … And he'd let his best friend do it to him. Not only _let_ him -- but actively sought it.

And apparently there was a part of his psyche that wanted more.

Jon looked at the remnants of his hash browns and didn't know whether to laugh, cry, or go to confession -- or maybe slip into the fine Ramada facilities to rub one out.

_It's no big deal. It's normal._

He stole a glance across the table. From what he could tell, Richie had gotten caught up in a debate over the merits of flavored pancake syrup. Jon already knew he was a maple-purist. They knew a lot of quirky things about each other.

And obviously, Richie was unfazed by Jon's latest interests. He hadn't called him a degenerate, or split to find a chick and have regular, all-American sex. He hadn't shied away at all … 

_"If you want it, I'll do it."_

Jon looked down at the mug in his hand. He supposed he should feel flattered. Turned on. Lucky. A lot of things. But instead he just felt … queasy.

He drained the last of his coffee and pushed away from the table. Richie's eyes were on him in a flash. He knew without even looking, because he could always count on that -- being the center of Richie's attention, whether there were five or five-thousand other people around them.

It was a mostly good thing, Jon thought.

He was still thinking that as he walked back to their room alone.


	3. Three

"Just ask _Jon?_ What the hell was that?"

Jon crossed his arms and adopted his best suffering-no-shit stance -- or the best one he could while standing in the middle of a trashed double occupancy, clad in hot-pink zebra-print pants.

Richie plopped onto the foot of Jon's bed and started untying his hideous Reebok high-tops.

"Huh?"

Jon let his head loll. Richie could be so exhausting, and not always in the fun way. And right now, Jon was in that risky gray area where he was buzzed from his backstage bourbon, but not drunk enough to be blissed-out.

"At breakfast," he clarified wearily. "You said you _swallow_ \-- Just ask Jon."

Richie, because he'd mostly indulged in weed, had to put his full concentration on the intricacies of his shoe laces. "Breakfast was, like, fifteen hours ago."

"Yeah, well, I haven't gotten you alone since then."

Richie looked up from under his lashes, a flirty little smile forming. "You been hopin' to get me alone?"

Jon nodded. "I don't want any witnesses when I strangle you."

Richie gave him a saucy head bob before kicking his shoes off and collapsing back onto the bed. "Stop being a drama queen." He lifted his head. "Or actually, bring your act over here, baby."

Jon valiantly disregarded the prickling sensation that rolled across his belly skin. He wasn't done. And anyway, it was embarrassing to be so reactive to even Richie's corniest advances. He strolled over to the bed and tried to break out his patented icy stare.

Richie closed his eyes and groaned. "Oh god, you're PMS-ing, aren't you?"

Jon raised his eyebrows. "I'd be offended by that if you weren't wearing so much eyeliner."

Richie's eyes popped open. "Am not. My beauty is natural."

Jon smirked. He was pretty sure he was the only one who knew Richie stealthily reapplied eyeliner after their gigs. For some reason, he liked keeping it their weird little secret.

Richie donned a fake pout then reached for Jon's hand, but couldn't close the distance.

"Why are you so far away?" 

Jon refused to succumb to what Richie considered his charms. "I want an answer. Why would you say something like that?"

Richie sighed. "I dunno."

Jon gritted his teeth. Sometimes he got tired of being the relative adult, especially at three a.m. "Rich, you can't say shit like that to the guys. Did you see Dave's face?"

Richie tossed a forearm over his eyes. "What? His face is always weird."

Jon booted the Reeboks out of his way and stepped closer to the bed. "I'm serious."

"Fine."

"What's fine?"

Richie lifted his arm. " _Fine,_ I won't ever mention it again. How I always swallow everything you got. Or how you fucking love it."

Jon startled at the unexpected bitterness. But in the next instant his innate defense shield hardened. 

"Why are you being so pissy about it? I'm making a simple request."

Richie snorted. "Request."

His tone immediately raised Jon's hackles. "You have a problem with that word?"

Richie propped himself onto his forearms. "Me? No. _You_ , on the other hand …"

Jon pressed his lips together, trying to keep a lid on his irritation. "Yeah?"

Richie slid back on the bed and sat up, crossing his legs. "You don't make requests. You either tell me what to do, or you act all coy and …" He made a vague gesture. "You get me to put myself out there, and then you just …"

He stalled out and looked off to the side. 

Jon frowned, an unease spreading through his middle. "What are you talking about?" 

Richie gnawed on his lip, still eyeing the other bed.

"You don't really want it, do you?" He angled his head to peer at Jon. "I mean, you even said so. You just wanna know where I draw the line."

Jon opened his mouth to argue, out of habit. But the truth was, he remembered saying something like that. He just couldn't remember why.

Richie shrugged a shoulder. "So now you know … I'd probably do anything to make you happy."

Jon stared, nailed by the weight of those words. Because Richie could toss them off with all the phony casualness he wanted -- They still meant something.

"Um. That's …" 

If Richie were a girl, he'd spin some "oh baby" bullshit line. But they didn't do that to each other, mainly because it wouldn't work. So Jon had to settle for awkward silence.

Because suddenly, in the metaphorical cold light of day, he realized he'd already known. When he'd asked Richie what he was willing to do, he'd already known the answer. If he were honest, every time he'd had an unbidden fantasy, it crossed his mind that Richie would do it … or possibly do _anything._ He only had to ask.

Jon supposed that subliminal knowledge had made the mental play-by-play hotter. But maybe it was also the problem. He wasn't sure he even wanted that level of devotion. 

He'd never asked for it.

Richie started fidgeting, obviously ill at ease with the way Jon was hovering like a weirdo. "Um. I just meant sexually, by the way. I won't eat cow-head jelly or whatever."

Jon's whole body seemed to un-grip as he choked out a laugh -- a little surprised and more than a little grateful Richie was giving him an out. 

He sighed. "Pig head."

Richie smiled tentatively. "Bitch, take that back."

Jon returned the smile then took a deep breath. "Rich. I didn't mean … We were talkin' trash, and that idea just kinda popped into my head."

Richie regarded him skeptically. "Just outta nowhere?"

Jon toed the carpet with his snakeskin boot. Richie had once advised him against it -- mixing snake and zebra -- so once in a while Jon did it just to annoy him. He almost smiled again, thinking about it … all the stupid little things he did with Richie in mind.

"Jonny."

Jon scratched at an eyebrow, still excavating the dirt-colored carpet. "I didn't ask you that question as a test or something." He looked up. "OK?"

Richie nodded slightly then continued to watch him, obviously expecting more words.

"Ugh," Jon groaned, turning and sitting heavily onto the edge of the bed. He scrubbed his hands over his face. "This is so embarrassing."

"So talk to me in the mirror."

"Huh?" Jon said into his hands.

"Look up."

Jon did as ordered and found himself face-to-face with their reflections, just above the mess of beer cans, candy bar wrappers and hairspray on the dresser. He saw a flicker of a smile pass over Richie's face.

"It's easier this way."

Jon nodded, feeling his heart beating in his throat already. "Yeah. OK, well … I've just been having thoughts lately, y'know?" 

"What kinda thoughts?"

Jon rolled his eyes. "I'm getting to it. Relax."

He watched as Richie silently mimicked him behind his back, but decided to let it go.

"It's just …" He worked his jaw. "Everything we've been doing -- It's all stuff I always thought was wrong. Like, in the mortal-sin, straight-to-hell way."

He looked at their reflections. "But I don't really feel that way anymore."

Richie's face softened, maybe in relief. "Me, either. I mean, we haven't burst into flames yet." He crossed his fingers.

Jon smiled faintly. "Yeah." He ran a hand through his hair, obscuring his face in the process. "So lately … I've had thoughts about other things we could do. That maybe I wanna try."

He didn't dare look in the mirror this time.

Richie cleared his throat. "You mean, like, other stuff that's supposed to be wrong?"

"Uh-huh." Jon forged on. "Stuff I've never asked a girl to do. Not even a groupie."

He paused, waiting for a signal to continue, half hoping Richie would tell him to keep his pervert mouth shut. But there was no chance in hell --

"Oh," Richie exclaimed, like clarity had dawned. "So now you've got new stuff to feel guilty about. Is that it?"

Jon huffed in frustration, because Richie wasn't right -- but he wasn't wrong, either.

"It's not that. I mean, it's not the _stuff_ that's the problem." He buried his face in his hands, wishing for that burst-into-flames thing. 

"Jonny, don't do that --"

Jon snapped his head up and glared at Richie's reflection. "I shouldn't be thinking about you that way."

Richie blinked, looking utterly confused. "What way?"

Jon let his shoulders slump, weary of having to explain himself. "I shouldn't think about you like -- like you're my sex toy or something. Just 'cause you're a guy or …"

He trailed off before he said _because you'll let me._

Richie furrowed his brow. "Well, in case you haven't noticed, I'm not a girl. You don't hafta treat me the same."

Jon growled lowly. "No shit."

"And I'm not some stranger who threw my bra at you and won ten minutes backstage."

"Yeah, got it," Jon sneered. "How does that make it OK? You're my best friend. I shouldn't --" He stopped dead when tears suddenly blurred his vision.

_The fuck?_

He swiped angrily at his eyes. " _Argh._ Fucking bourbon."

Richie just gawked at his reflection, and Jon couldn't stand it. "You'll _do_ it," he sniped. "Anything I ask. Like you just said."

He pinned Richie with a stare in the mirror, like he was accusing him of a crime. "You'll do anything to make me happy." 

Richie's eyes bugged out. "So what? What's wrong with that? When you love someone, you wanna make 'em happy. You dumb fuck."

Jon's claws came out at the deliberate provocation -- because Richie, of all people, knew he would tolerate a lot of insults, but _dumb_ wasn't one of them.

" _I'm_ a dumb fuck? You're the one who'll stick his slutty tongue anywhere."

Richie shot eye daggers at his image. "Don't count on it, you _dumb fuck._ "

Jon felt his anger surging to the surface, and he whipped around to verbally skewer the bitch face to face. But when they actually locked eyes, it was the weirdest thing. He lost all of his steam -- just like that.

Because Richie was sitting there, cross-legged and scowling. In his _Burrn!_ t-shirt he'd gotten in Japan, with a hole right over his stupid nipple. With his hair air-dried into strange peaks and valleys. And his eyeliner that could be seen from outer space.

And it occurred to Jon that they were fighting over tongues and where to put them, and whether it was OK for his happiness to be Richie's priority.

So he dropped his head and started laughing … like a fucking crazy person. 

Jon felt the bed shift and knew Richie was scooting toward him. He didn't bother resisting when two hands cupped his face and lifted it a bit. He watched Richie's lips as he smirked.

"Why do you hafta make everything so complicated?"

On impulse, Jon used both hands to shove Richie onto his back, taking a guilty satisfaction in his surprised yelp. He straddled Richie's hips and planted his palms on his chest.

"Why do you always hafta push everything?"

Richie licked his lips, and Jon couldn't tell if it was deliberate or not. "'Cause you're hot when you're pissed."

Jon ignored the taunt and brought his hands to either side of Richie's head, threading his fingers into his hair. He leaned down, till their lips were just shy of touching, then closed his eyes.

"I don't want you to do _anything_ just to make me happy."

There was no answer, and Jon was going to say it again when he felt Richie's hand at the back of his head, and then those lips brushing his. It was enough to send a spark through his nerves, warming his whole body.

Jon tried to hold onto the thread of his words as Richie's tongue swiped his bottom lip … as they began to move softly against each other in an unhurried exploration. It would be so easy, he realized, to just let it go and be carried away by the wave of physical pleasure. 

Easy.

It struck him how these simpler moments, at least, had become easy. How in the beginning, he'd unconsciously retract from Richie's touch because twenty years of habit still lived in his body and told him he should. But now his reflex was to move into the contact.

How in the beginning, it sometimes felt like Richie was too difficult to hold -- with his body too unlike a girl's, too big, too angular. But now, when they were sober enough, their bodies seemed to align perfectly and dissolve into each other.

Still, the easier those physical moments became, the more complicated life seemed. To Jon, at least …

He pulled away abruptly and nestled his head into the curve of Richie's neck.

"I mean it, OK? I don't want that."

He curled his fingers around the soft locks still in his hand, and Richie's arms closed around him.

"OK."

Jon kissed the skin under his lips. "I don't care what we do. Just …"

He knew he was babbling, and failing to articulate what he meant -- but he was trying.

Richie's palm slid down his spine then up again. "OK. Jonny, don't --"

Jon didn't hear the rest, if there was anything more, because he was kissing along Richie's jaw -- tasting and breathing the familiar tangy sweetness. And feeling how the simple pleasure made his body heavier, in a good way. More at home. 

He kissed the corner of Richie's mouth then lifted up. "What do you want?"

Richie blinked a few times, already partway lost. "Um … whatever you want."

Jon huffed, but there was no animosity in it. "Unh-uh. What do _you_ want?"

Richie smiled a little. "I don't care." He traced a thumb over Jon's cheekbone. "Anything."

Jon felt a swell in his chest, so he dove down before his face could give him away. He'd had enough with confessions for a while. 

As soon as their lips met, Richie's hands started roaming his body, like he was getting reacquainted with something he'd missed. But Jon kept his hands anchored, circling his fingertips into Richie's scalp -- needing to feel centered and grounded for a while.

It wasn't until Richie tugged at his shirt hem -- and the coolness of the air-conditioned room hit his skin -- that he realized how much heat was trapped between them. He didn't mind, though. Some kinds of discomfort felt right. 

Richie tilted his head, just enough for a breath of space between them, and Jon exhaled against his cheek -- a spot, he'd learned, that was oddly ticklish. Richie winced and made an undignified little sound before swatting Jon's ass.

"Can you take these ugly things off?" he murmured, working his fingers under Jon's waistband.

" _You're_ ugly," Jon whispered, moving toward Richie's earlobe. It was another sensitive spot, and he had plans for it.

Richie chuckled. "C'mon." He circled his hips, and Jon froze at the spark that rode into and through him.

It was hard to argue with, so he didn't.

As they stripped, he realized Richie must've been done with confessions, too, because he said nothing. And that was fine with Jon -- He needed the wordless efficiency and the quick descent back into rhythm. 

He needed the mindless reach for the lube -- always at the ready now, like some gay-porn cliché. He needed to feel Richie's weight and heat in his hand, that mix of solidity and silkiness that he'd grown very fond of touching.

Maybe because all he had to do was glide his hand a certain way, allow a certain lightness in his fingertips -- and he got to hear the most arresting chorus of sounds. He got to press into the pleasure-pain of Richie's nails digging into him. He got to hear their voices merge as he slowly slid his tip along that slick warmth. He got to remember, once again, that something so simple could engulf him entirely.

Jon leaned in close to Richie's ear. "This good?"

He gasped when two hands cupped his ass and began to massage roughly. He couldn't manage words, so he tried landing a sloppy kiss, missing Richie's mouth completely. And he found himself panting against that cheek again, unable to see or feel beyond the building waves deep inside.

"It's good," Richie whispered, maybe a full minute late -- holding on tighter, arching up more insistently.

Jon wanted to kiss him, but couldn't find the coordination. So he ended up dragging his mouth across random patches of skin, taking gulps of air, tasting the burned-wood remnants of the weed.

Even that tasted good to him … so good, he started lapping it up. And the heat, the salt, the hint of sweetness on his tongue became everything he needed.

Richie groaned and grabbed a handful of his hair, pulling just hard enough to send an almost unbearable shot of electricity through Jon's core … Pulling just enough to guide him into a kiss -- strangely tender in counterpoint to their now-desperate rutting.

The usual cacophony started taking over Jon's consciousness -- their moans and sharp inhalations, the whining of a strange, well-used bed. But at some point, it seemed like Richie murmured something against his lips -- something he failed to catch. 

Maybe it was just _hmmm._ Jon decided it was, because he had no capacity for questions.

He only had room for the open-mouth kisses devouring his neck, his collarbone, his shoulder. For those calloused fingertips that seemed to be memorizing every inch of his skin.

Every now and then Richie's breath changed, like he was going to say something. But he'd just sigh instead, his humid exhale bathing Jon's sensitized skin and making him flinch -- not out of fear, like he used to. Now it was like the pleasure from Richie's little touches, his gentler attentions, verged on too much.

"Rich …"

Jon worked his palms underneath Richie's shoulder blades, feeling the sheen of sweat there, the dampness of the sheets. Chest to chest, he couldn't tell whose heartbeat was whose now. He supposed it didn't matter. All that mattered was getting to the end together.

And they did.

*****

"You're closer."

"Yeah, like, a foot."

"Exactly. Get up."

Richie sighed and patted Jon's butt. "C'mon. Before we're stuck together like the Krazy Glue commercial."

Jon lifted his head from Richie's shoulder and quirked an eyebrow. "There's a Krazy Glue commercial with two naked guys?"

"It's on Cinemax." Richie poked his arm. "C'mon. You need to clean up, man. It'll be a bitch to get all that dried spooge outta your forest of body hair."

"Fucker," Jon snarled, then started rocking side to side to smear the mess.

" _Gah._ " Richie punched his arm this time. "Get off me, you fucking woolly mammoth."

They were both laughing too hard to have anything resembling a real fight. But it wasn't long before Jon landed on the floor next to the bed -- which, by default, meant he had to get the towels.

Clean-up always sucked. But he supposed it was worth the trouble.

Eventually they moved to Richie's bed, since it was unspoiled. And as Jon killed the nightstand light, he had a glimmer of hope he was in the clear. But as soon as he settled into the pillows, Richie curled against his side and threw an arm across his belly.

"Jonny?"

Jon sighed. "Yeah?"

"It's OK, you know."

Jon blew out another breath. It was always fifty-fifty whether Richie would pass out cold post-orgasm, or pull his pillow-talk shit. Apparently, he was feeling chatty tonight.

"Great," Jon chirped. "G'night."

Richie gave him a squeeze. "Seriously. It's OK to want stuff, even if you think it's weird or pervy or whatever."

Jon squirmed, trying to get some distance between them. "Fantastic. Night, Rich."

Richie refused to loosen his hold. "And it's OK to ask for it."

_Jesus Christ._

Jon closed his eyes, as if that would put an end to it. Almost immediately, though, he felt that gaze on him, even through the dark.

He opened his eyes. "Fine." He angled his head toward Richie. "And what about you?"

"What about me?"

"It's OK to say no."

There was a pause before Richie answered. "I know that."

Jon detected a trace of defensiveness, so he brought his hand to Richie's forearm and trailed his fingertips along the softer skin of the underside. "OK … Good." 

Richie was quiet then, and Jon wasn't sure if that was a good or bad thing. Just when he was going to speak up, Richie leaned in and touched his lips to Jon's cheek -- not a kiss, really, just a closeness.

As he pulled away, he sighed. "Meow, meow, meow, meow --"

" _Ugh._ " Jon kicked at Richie's shins. "No! Go back to the spooge bed."

Richie drew his legs up and clucked his tongue. "Rude."

Jon couldn't help laughing. "Fucking weirdo. It's four a.m. Let me sleep."

"Mmm." Richie scooted away, just a little, but it was enough for Jon to notice the change in temperature. He wasn't sure if he liked it.

"That's why you love me," Richie whispered.

Jon turned and squinted at Richie's silhouette, taken off-guard. "What?"

He could see a glint of light reflected in Richie's eyes as he spoke. "I'm a fucking weirdo. That's why you love me."

And then Jon remembered -- what Richie had said in the middle of their argument. He hadn't said it back.

He rolled fully onto his side and reached to cup Richie's cheek. "That's definitely one reason."

Richie smiled into the touch, and a ridiculous, slightly painful warmth percolated across Jon's chest. He stroked Richie's cheekbone then slipped his hand away, moving onto his back again. He lay there for a while, taking in the dark and feeling the anchor of the body at his side. Exhausted but somehow wide awake. 

"Rich?" 

"Hmm?"

"I wanna ask you for something."

Richie shifted a little. "Um, sure."

Jon took a breath. "At our next gig, I want you to throw your bra at me then gimme ten minutes backstage."

Richie snorted. "Dirty boy. Absolutely fucking not -- _Twenty_ minutes."

Jon grinned. "If that'll make you happy, baby."

"Mmm." Richie shamelessly burrowed in closer. "Definitely."

Jon was still smiling as he closed his eyes. "OK. Glad I asked."

END


End file.
